CHAPTER IIIAT THE FLYING W
It fell to Uncle Jepson to hitch the blacks to the buckboard—in a frigid silence Masten had found his trunk, opened it and drawn out some very necessary dry clothing; then marching behind a thick clump of alder, he proceeded to make the change. After this he climbed down to the river and washed the mud from visible portions of his body. Then he returned to the buckboard, to find the others waiting for him. In a strained silence he climbed up to the seat beside Ruth, took up the reins, and sent the blacks forward.
It was ten miles to the Flying W ranchhouse, and during the ride the silence was broken only once. That was when, at about the fifth mile, Ruth placed a hand on Masten’s arm and smiled at him.
“I really think Mr. Randersonwassorry that he upset you in the mud, Willard,” she said gently. “I don’t think he did it to be mean. And it wasso manly of him to apologize to you.” She laughed, thinking that time had already removed the sting. “And you reallydidlook funny, Willard, with the mud all over you. I—I could have laughed, myself, if I hadn’t felt so indignant.”
“I’ll thank you to not refer to it again, Ruth,” he said crossly.
She flushed and looked straight ahead of her at the unfolding vistas that their passage revealed: at the undulating plains, green with bunch-grass that the rain of the night before had washed and reinvigorated; into gullies where weeds grew thick; peering into arroyos—visible memories of washouts and cloudbursts; glimpsing barrancas as they flashed by; wondering at the depth of draws through which the trail led; shivering at the cacti—a brilliant green after the rain—for somehow they seemed to symbolize the spirit of the country—they looked so grim, hardy, and mysterious with their ugly thorns that seemed to threaten and mock. She shrank, too, when the buckboard passed the skeleton of a steer, its bleached bones ghastly in the sunlight, but she smiled when she saw a sea of soap-weed with yellow blossoms already unfolding, and shelooked long at a mile-wide section of mesquite, dark and inviting in the distance. She saw a rattler cross the trail in front of the buckboard and draw its loathsome length into a coil at the base of some crabbed yucca, and thereafter she made grimaces at each of the ugly plants they passed. It was new to her, and wonderful. Everything, weird or ugly, possessed a strange fascination for her, and when they lurched over the crest of a hill and she saw, looming somberly in the distance in front of her, a great cottonwood grove, with some mountains behind it, their peaks gleaming in the shimmering sunlight, thrusting above some fleecy white clouds against a background of deep-blue sky, her eyes glistened and she sat very erect, thrilled. It was in such a country that she had longed to live all the days of her life.
Somehow, it gave her a different viewpoint. The man who had accommodated them back at the river seemed to fit very well here. The spirit of the young, unfettered country was in his eyes, in his serene manner; he was as hardy and rugged as this land from which he had sprung.
When the buckboard came to a halt in the Flying W ranchhouse yard, Ruth Harkness’ firstemotion was one of a great happiness that the Harknesses had always been thrifty and neat, and also that Uncle William had persisted in these habits. She had greatly feared, for during the last day of her ride on the train she had passed many ranchhouses and she had been appalled and depressed by the dilapidated appearance of their exteriors, and by the general atmosphere of disorder and shiftlessness that seemed to surround them. So many of them had reminded her of the dwelling places of careless farmers on her own familiar countryside, and she had assured herself that if the Flying W were anything like those others she would immediately try to find a buyer, much as she wished to stay.
But the first glance at the Flying W convinced her that her fears had been groundless. The ranchhouse was a big two-story structure built of heavy timber, with porches in front and rear, and wide cornices, all painted white and set on a solid foundation of stone. It looked spacious and comfortable. The other buildings—stables, bunkhouse, messhouse, blacksmith shop, and several others—did not discredit the ranchhouse. They all were in good repair. She had alreadynoted that the fences were well kept; she had seen chickens and pigs, flowers and a small garden; and behind the stable, in an enclosure of barbed wire, she had observed some cows—milkers, she was certain.
The ranchhouse was well sheltered by timber. The great cottonwood grove that she had seen from the plains was close to the house on the south; it extended east and west for perhaps half a mile, and a grove of firs rose to the north, back of the pasture fence. The general character of the land surrounding the house was a sort of rolling level. The foothills belonging to the mountains that she had seen while approaching the ranchhouse were behind the cottonwood grove. She had seen, too, that the river they had crossed at the ford which Wes Vickers had called “Calamity” was not more than a mile from the house, and therefore she concluded that it doubled widely. Later, she learned from Vickers that her conclusion was correct, and that the river was called “Rabbit Ear.” Why it was called that she was never able to discover.
When the buckboard came to a halt, two men who had been seated in the doorway of one of the buildings—she discovered, later, that it wasthe bunkhouse—got up, lazily, and approached the buckboard. Ruth felt a pulse of trepidation as they sauntered close to the wagon. Vickers had told her nothing directly concerning the character of the men at the ranch, but during their conversation at Red Rock that morning he had mentioned that the “boys are a good lot, taken together, but they’s some that don’t measure up.” And she wondered whether these two came under that final vague, though significant classification.
Their appearance was against them. The one in advance, a man of medium height, looked positively villainous with his long, drooping black mustache and heavy-thatched eyebrows. He eyed the occupants of the buckboard with an insolent half-smile, which the girl thought he tried—in vain—to make welcoming.
The other was a man of about thirty; tall, slender, lithe, swarthy, with thin, expressive lips that were twisted upward at one corner in an insincere smirk. This taller man came close to the wagon and paused in an attitude of quiet impudence.
“I reckon you’re Ruth Harkness—the ol’ man’s niece?” he said.
“Yes,” returned the girl, smiling. Perhaps she had misjudged these men.
“Well,” said the man, looking at her with a bold glance that made her pulse skip a beat, “you’re a stunner for looks, anyway.” He reached out his hand. She took it, feeling that it was the proper thing to do, although with the action she heard a grumble from Masten.
“You’re welcome to the Flyin’ W,” said the man, breaking an awkward silence. “Tom Chavis is special glad to see a pretty woman around these parts.”
She felt, in his eyes more than his words, a veiled significance. She reddened a little, but met his gaze fairly, her eyes unwavering.
“Who is Tom Chavis?” she asked.
“I’m reckonin’ to be Tom Chavis,” he said, studying her. He waved a hand toward the other man, not looking at him. “This is my friend Jim Pickett. We was foreman an’ straw boss, respective, under Bill Harkness.”
She could not help wishing that her uncle had discharged the two men before his death. She was wondering a little at Masten’s silence; it seemed to her that he must see her embarrassment, and that he might relieve her of the burdenof this conversation. She looked quickly at him; he appeared to be unconcernedly inspecting the ranchhouse. Perhaps, after all, there was nothing wrong with these men. Certainly, being a man himself, Masten should be able to tell.
And so she felt a little more at ease.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Chavis,” she said. “Your friend Mr. Pickett too.” She indicated Masten with a nod of her head toward him. “This is Mr. Willard Masten, a very dear friend of mine.” The color in her face deepened with the words.
Chavis had looked twice at Masten before Ruth spoke. He looked again now, meeting the Easterner’s eyes. Chavis had been ready to sneer at Masten because of his garments—they were duplicates of those he had worn before the ducking, and quite as immaculate—but something in the Easterner’s eyes kept the sneer back; his own eyes gleamed with a quick, comprehensive fire, and he smiled. In the buckboard, fresh from that civilization which Chavis was ready to scorn, he had recognized a kindred spirit. There was exultation in his voice when he spoke, and he reached over Ruth to grasp Masten’s hand.
“An’ so this is Willard, a very dear friend ofyourn, eh? Well, now, I’m sure glad, an’ I reckon him an’ me will get on.” He urged Pickett forward and introduced him, and Pickett gave Masten one quick, appraising glance. Then he, too, grinned.
Ruth was gratified. These men were rough, but they had been quick to recognize and appreciate Masten’s good qualities. They had gone more than half way in welcoming him. Of course, there was Chavis’ bold allusion to a “pretty woman,” but the very uncouthness of the men must be the explanation for that breach of etiquette. She was much relieved.
Masten was suave and solicitous. He jumped out of the buckboard and helped her down, performing a like service for Aunt Martha. Uncle Jepson got out himself. Then, as Ruth hesitated an instant, Masten bent over her.
“You must be tired, dear. Go in and explore the house. Get some refreshment and take a rest. I’ll attend to the baggage and the horses.”
He gave her a gentle pressure of the hand, and, followed by Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha, she went indoors.
CHAPTER IVA MEMORY OF THE RIDER
A quiet satisfaction shone from Ruth’s eyes when, accompanied by Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson, she completed her inspection of the ranchhouse.
“It isn’t all that could be desired,” she told Aunt Martha, “but it is better than I expected.”
“It’s comfortable, dearie,” mildly smiled Aunt Martha.
“An’ big enough for a feller to stretch his legs in,” added Uncle Jepson. He was sitting in a big chair at one of the front windows of the sitting-room, having already adjusted himself to his new surroundings, and was smoking a short briar pipe and looking out of the window at the bunkhouse, in front of which stood Pickett, Chavis, and Masten, talking and laughing.
While Ruth and her relatives had been inspecting one of the upstairs rooms, she had heard the men bringing the baggage in, had heard them clumping up the stairs and setting the trunksdown. Then they went out, and a little later, peering from one of the windows upstairs, Ruth had seen Masten and the other two walking toward the stable. They were talking pleasantly; their liking for each other seemed to be mutual. Ruth was delighted, but Uncle Jepson had frowned several times when looking at them.
“I cal’late them two critters’ll bear a heap of watchin’,” he said now. “They don’t look honest.”
“Jep,” said Aunt Martha before Ruth could speak, “you’re always criticising folks.”
“It’s in their faces drat ’em,” insisted Uncle Jepson. He turned a vindictive eye on his niece. “If I’d have been fifty year younger I’d have give that Chavis a durn good thrashin’ for sayin’ what he did to you about pretty gals. Durn his hide, anyhow! That there Wil—”
“I felt that way myself, at first,” smiled Ruth. “Afterwards, though, I felt differently. I suppose they were glad to see the new owner. Perhaps they haven’t seen a lady in a long time.”
“There’s ways of showin’ gladness,” contended Uncle Jepson. “I cal’late if I wanted to compliment a girl, I wouldn’t look at her like I wanted to carry her off to the mountains.”
“Jep, they’re only cowboys—they don’t know any different,” remonstrated Aunt Martha.
“They don’t, eh?” sniffed Uncle Jepson. “I cal’late that feller, Rex Randerson, is some different, ain’t he? There’s a gentleman, Ruth. You didn’t see him makin’ no ox-eyes. An’ I’ll bet you wouldn’t ketch him gettin’ thick with them two plug-uglies out there!”
Ruth turned away, smiling tolerantly, after having caught a glimpse of Aunt Martha’s brows, uplifted in resignation. She was as fully aware of Uncle Jepson’s dislike of Willard Masten as she was of Uncle Jepson’s testiness and of his habit of speaking his thoughts without reservation.
Also, she had always avoided opposing him. It did not seem to be worth while. He had been left destitute, except for the little farm back near Poughkeepsie which he had sold at her request to accompany her here, and she felt that habits of thought and speech are firmly fixed at sixty-nine, and argument cannot shake them.
That first day at the ranchhouse was the beginning of a new existence for Ruth. Bound for years by the narrow restrictions and conventionality of the Poughkeepsie countryside, she found the spaciousness and newness of this lifeinviting and satisfying. Here there seemed to be no limit, either to the space or to the flights that one’s soul might take, and in the solemn grandeur of the open she felt the omnipotence of God and the spell of nature.
She had plenty of time after the first day to hold communion with the Creator. Masten was rarely near her. His acquaintance with Pickett and Chavis seemed destined to develop into friendship. He rode much with them—“looking over the range,” he told her—and only in the evening did he find time to devote to her.
Wes Vickers returned from Red Rock on the morning following Ruth’s arrival. Apparently, in spite of Randerson’s prediction, Vickers did not get drunk in town. Through him Ruth learned much about the Flying W. He gave her the fruit of his experience, and he had been with the Flying W as range boss for nearly five years.
Vickers was forty. His hair was gray at the temples; he was slightly stoop-shouldered from years in the saddle, and his legs were bowed from the same cause. He was the driving force of the Flying W. Ruth’s uncle had written her to that effect the year before during his illness,stating that without Vickers’ help he would be compelled to sell the ranch. The truth of this statement dawned upon Ruth very soon after her acquaintance with Vickers. He was argus-eyed, omnipresent. It seemed that he never slept. Mornings when she would arise with the dawn she would find Vickers gone to visit some distant part of the range. She was seldom awake at night when he returned.
He had said little to her regarding the men. “They ’tend to business,” was his invariable response when she sought to question him. “It’s a pretty wild life,” he told her when one day about two weeks after her coming she had pressed him; “an’ the boys just can’t help kickin’ over the traces once in a while.”
“Chavis and Pickett good men?” she asked.
“You saw anything to show you they ain’t?” he said, with a queer look at her.
“Why, no,” she returned. But her cheeks reddened.
He looked at her with a peculiar squint. “Seems like Masten runnin’ with them shows that they ain’t nothin’ wrong with them,” he said.
She had no reply to make to this, but she was vaguely disturbed over the expression in Vickers’eyes; that look seemed to indicate that her own first impression of the two men, and Uncle Jepson’s later condemnation of them, might be correct. However, they did not bother her, and she felt certain that Masten could care for himself.
With Masten absent with Chavis and Pickett nearly every day, Ruth had much time to herself. The river attracted her, and she rode to it many times, on a slant-eyed pony that Vickers had selected for her, and which had been gentled by a young cowpuncher brought in from an outlying camp solely for that purpose by the range boss. The young puncher had been reluctant to come, and he was equally reluctant to go.
“This here cayuse,” he said to Vickers, when the latter instructed him to return to his outfit, saying that Miss Ruth thought she could now ride the pony without trouble, “is got a heap of devilment in him, yet—which ought to come out.”
“Miss Ruth’s got a fellow,” said the range boss, in seeming irrelevance. But the young puncher sneered a malignant denial and rode away to his camp.
There were fourteen other men employed bythe Flying W. Ruth met them at various times. Invariably they were looking for strays. They seemed—some of them—content to look at her; others, bolder, manufactured ingenuous pretexts to talk; but—all were gentlemen.
She arose one morning during the third week of her stay at the ranch, to be greeted by one of those perfect days that late spring brings. It had been dry for a week, with a hint of receding chill in the air, and the comfort of a wrap was still felt. But on this morning the sun was showing his power, and a balmy south breeze that entered her window was burdened with the aroma of sage, strong and delicious. She got out of bed and looked out of the window. It was a changed world. Summer had come overnight. No morning in the East had ever made her feel quite like this.
Out on the front porch later in the morning, with Chavis and Pickett standing near, she asked Masten to ride with her.
He seemed annoyed, but spoke persuasively.
“Put it off a day, won’t you, Ruth? There’s a good girl. I’ve promised to go to Lazette with the boys this morning, and I don’t want to disappoint them.” Then, seeing the disappointment inher eyes, he added: “Where did you want to ride?”
“Why,” she said, hoping that, after all, he might change his mind, “I’m only going to the box canyon, down the river. There’s such a pretty stretch of timber there.”
He smiled indulgently. “I’ll try to meet you there, this afternoon about three, if I can make it. But don’t wait longer.” He turned his back to her and presently went away with Chavis and Pickett.
She stood for a little time, watching them as they mounted down near the corral gate and rode away, and then she turned and observed Uncle Jepson standing near a corner of the house, smoking, and watching her. She forced a smile and went into the house.
A little after noon she saddled her pony and rode away toward the river. She had decided that perhaps Masten might keep his appointment in spite of the obvious insincerity that had been expressed on his face during their talk.
It was fully five miles to the grove at the head of the box canyon, and she made a leisurely ride of it, so that it must have been nearly two o’clock when she dismounted and hitched the pony to atree. Seating herself on a flat rock near the canyon edge, she settled herself to wait.
It seemed a long time. Twice after half-past two she looked at her watch, impatiently. At three she looked again; and, disappointed, she was about to rise to go to her pony, when she heard the rapid drumming of hoofs near her.
With leaping heart and flushed face she turned her back to the direction from which the sounds seemed to come and waited listening, trying to appear unconcerned. She would make him believe she had not heard him. He did care, after all, enough to part with his companions—for her sake. She had misjudged him, and she was sincerely repentant. And when she heard his pony come to a halt near her she had to clench her hands to keep from turning to face him.
She heard him dismount, heard the rustle and crackling of twigs under his feet as he approached, and then, feeling that it would be futile to dissemble further, she turned, a smile on her lips.
Standing within five feet of her, grinning with amusement, was Tom Chavis. Curiously enough, despite her former fear of the man she did not fear him now, and after the first shock of surprise she looked at him composedly, for she half suspectedthat Masten had sent him, fearing that shewouldwait in spite of his admonition not to do so. She got up and faced Chavis.
“Mr. Masten couldn’t come, I suppose?” she said.
“That’s right,” he said, looking at her oddly; “he couldn’t come. You see, he’s sort of taken a shine to a biscuit shooter in Crogan’s, over in Lazette, an’ he couldn’t very well break away.”
“A biscuit shooter!” she said, uncomprehendingly.
“Sure. I reckon that back East you’d call her a waitress, or somethin’. I ain’t admirin’ his taste none. She ain’t nowheres near as good-lookin’ as you.”
Her first emotion was one of sickening, maddening jealousy. It made her physically weak, and she trembled as she fought it down. But the sensation passed and, though she felt that her face was hot and flushed, the cold calm of righteous resentment was slowly seizing her.
“Did Mr. Masten send you here to tell me this?” she asked icily.
“Why, no. I did it on my own hook. I knowed you’d be waitin’—I heard you makin’ the date with Willard, this mornin’. An’ I figgeredthat what was fair for one was fair for another. So I sneaked away from Willard an’ come here. I’ve taken quite a shine to you, ma’am; you’ve sure got me some flustered. An’ I reckon—” here he took a step toward her and grinned significantly “that I’ll make a rattlin’ good substitute for Willard.”
She struck at him, blindly, savagely. She felt her open hand strike his cheek, heard him curse, and then, in a daze she was running toward her pony. She did not turn, but furiously raced the animal across the plains toward the ranchhouse.
She was calmer when she reached the house, but went directly to her room, where she changed her clothes and sat for a long time at one of the windows, looking toward the river—and toward Lazette.
Downstairs, Uncle Jepson, who from a window of the bunkhouse had seen her come in, had followed her into the house, to remark grumblingly to Aunt Martha:
“Willard didn’t meet her, drat him!”
Ruth passed a miserable night, thinking over Chavis’ words. The man might have been lying. Obviously, common fairness demanded that she tell Masten of the circumstance. On one thingshe was determined: that Chavis should leave the ranch, whether he had lied to her or not. She would have instructed Vickers to attend to that, but Vickers had gone again to Red Rock on business, and would not return for two or three days. She would wait until Vickers returned to discharge Chavis, but she must tell Masten of the insult, for she yearned to see Chavis punished.
She waited until after breakfast the following morning, and then she induced Masten to walk with her, under pretext of examining the flower beds. Reaching them, she faced him fairly.
“Willard,” she said, her lips white and stiff, “there must be no double-dealing between you and me. Tom Chavis told me yesterday that you are interested in a waitress in Lazette. Is that true?”
He started, flushed darkly, and then smiled blandly.
“Tom Chavis is romancing, my dear. If there is a waitress in Lazette I have not seen her.” He seized her by the shoulders and spoke earnestly. “I am interested in Ruth Harkness, my dear. You surely don’t believe such a story, do you, Ruth?”
He looked at her so frankly that her jealousy took wings, and she blushed and lowered her eyes.She raised them again, almost instantly, however; they were glowing vindictively.
“Tom Chavis came to the box canyon at three yesterday afternoon,” she said firmly. “He insulted me. I want you to discharge him; Vickers is not here to do it. And I do not want to see him again.”
He pressed his lips together and avoided her gaze, and a slow red stole into his face. Then he laughed mirthlessly.
“Tom Chavis is a valuable man here, Ruth,” he said. “If the insult was one that can be overlooked, you would do well to let the matter rest. But be assured that I shall have a talk with Chavis, and you may believe that he will not repeat the offense.” He patted her shoulder. “In the meantime,” he said, with a hurt expression in his eyes, “do have some faith in me.”
Reassured, convinced that she had done him an injustice in believing Chavis, she passed the remainder of the day in comparative light-heartedness. But when the awesome darkness of the West settled over the country, and deep, stirring thoughts came to her on her pillow, she found herself thinking of the rider of the river. He grew very vivid in her thoughts, and she found herselfwondering,—remembering the stern manliness of his face,—whether he, listening to the story of Chavis’ insult from her lips, would have sought to find excuses for her insulter.
CHAPTER VLOVE VS. BUSINESS
On Sunday afternoon Ruth, Masten, Aunt Martha, and Uncle Jepson were sitting on the front porch of the Flying W ranchhouse. Ruth was reading and thinking—thinking most of the time, the book lying open in her lap. Masten was smoking a cigar—one of the many that he had brought with him—and which he selfishly kept exclusively for his own use. Masten seemed to be doing a great deal of thinking, too, for he was silent during long periods, reclining easily in a big rocker, well-groomed and immaculate as usual, looking decidedly out of place in this country, where extravagant personal adornment was considered an indication of effeminacy.
Yet it was this immaculateness that had attracted Ruth to Masten in the first place when a year and a half before she had met him at a party in Poughkeepsie. Fresh from a big city near by, he had outshone the country gallants at the party ashe had outshone the cowboys that Ruth had seen since coming to the Flying W. His courtship had been gallant, too; he had quite captivated her, and after their engagement—which had been a rather matter-of-fact affair—she had not found it possible to refuse him permission to accompany her to the West.
“Have you visited your neighbor yet, Ruth?” Masten inquired at last.
“Neighbor!” Ruth showed astonishment by letting her book close and losing her place. “Why, I didn’t know we had a neighbor nearer than the Diamond H!”
Masten’s lips curled. Her reference to the Diamond H recalled unpleasant memories.
“A nester,” he said, and then added after a pause—“and his daughter. Only two miles from here, across the river. There’s a trail, through a break in the canyon, leading to their ranch on the other side of the river. The man’s name is Catherson—Abe Catherson. Chavis tells me he was something of a bother to your uncle, because of his propensity to steal Flying W cattle. He’s an old savage.”
“And the daughter?” inquired Ruth, her eyes alight with interest.
“Half wild, bare-footed, ragged. She’s pretty, though.”
“How old is she, Willard?”
“A mere child. Fifteen, I should judge.”
“I shall visit them tomorrow,” declared Ruth.
“Sakes alive! Half wild? I should think she would be—living in that wilderness!” said Aunt Martha, looking up from her knitting, over the tops of her glasses.
“Everything is wild in this country,” said Masten, a slight sneer in his voice. “The people are repulsive, in dress, manner, and speech.” He delicately flecked some cigar ash from a coat sleeve.
Uncle Jepson wrinkled his nose belligerently. He sniffed in eloquent preparation for speech, but Aunt Martha averted the imminent clash by saying sharply:
“Jep, you hop in there and get that ball of yarn off the dining-room table!”
So potent is habit that Uncle Jepson started to obey automatically, Ruth interjected a word, speaking to Masten, and Uncle Jepson’s opportunity was lost.
Silence reigned again until Ruth, who was facing the Calamity Trail, suddenly exclaimed:
“Some one is coming!”
During the silence she had again been thinking of Rex Randerson, and seeing the figure on the trail she had leaped to the conclusion that it was he. Her face had flushed. Masten noticed it, for he looked narrowly at her and, though he said nothing, there was that in his eyes which told he had divined what was in her mind.
It was not Randerson, however, but Vickers, who was coming. They all recognized him when he came closer, and they watched him with that peculiar concertedness which seizes upon an expectant company, until he dismounted at the corral gates and came toward them.
Plainly there was something on Vickers’ mind, for he smiled mechanically as he stepped upon the porch and looked at them.
“Well, I’m back,” he said. He looked at Ruth. “There’s somethin’ I’d like to say to you. It’s business. If you’d rather hear it private—”
“I think there is nothing—” she began.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to leave here.”
Ruth’s face grew long. Uncle Jepson gagged on a mouthful of smoke. Aunt Martha ceased knitting. Masten alone seemed unmoved, but an elated gleam was in his eyes.
“Isn’t that a rather sudden decision, Mr. Vickers?” questioned Ruth after a silence.
“Well, mebbe it is, to you,” said Vickers, with some embarrassment. “But the fact is, I’ve been thinkin’ of goin’ for a long time—about a year to be exact. I was goin’ before your uncle died, but I kept holdin’ on because he wanted me to. You see, ma’am, I’ve got a mother back East. She’s been poorly for quite a while now, an’ has been wantin’ me to come. I’ve been puttin’ it off, but it’s got to the point where it can’t be put off any longer. I got a letter from her doctor the other day, an’ he says that she can’t last a heap longer. So—I’m goin’.”
“That’s too bad,” sympathized Ruth. “You ought to go, and go quickly.”
“I’m aimin’ to, ma’am. But I’ve got to tell you somethin’ before I go. Me an’ your uncle was pretty thick; he trusted me a heap.”
“Yes,” said Ruth; “he told me that he liked and trusted you.”
“Well, you’ll understand then. A couple of months before he cashed in, we was talkin’ of him goin’. He knowed it, ma’am. We was talkin’ about the ranch. He knowed I wanted to leave. ‘What’ll I do for a range boss when you’regone?’ he asked me. ‘I won’t go till you ain’t here any more,’ I tells him. An’ he grinned. ‘I’m goin’ to leave the Flyin’ W to my niece, Ruth Harkness of Poughkeepsie,’ he says. ‘I’d like her to stay an’ run it—if she likes it here. You’ll be gone then, an’ who in Sam Hill will be range boss then?’ I told him I didn’t have no thoughts on the subject, an’ he continues: ‘Rex Randerson, Vickers—he’ll be range boss. Do you understand? If you was to pull your freight right now, Rex Randerson would be range boss as soon as I could get word over to him. An’ if you’ve got any say-so after I’m gone, an’ Ruth wants to keep the ranch, you tell her that—that Bill Harkness wants Rex Randerson to be range boss after Wes Vickers don’t want it any more.’ That’s what he said, ma’am; them’s his very words.”
Ruth looked at Masten. He was staring stonily out into the plains. Ruth’s cheeks reddened, for she felt that she knew his thoughts. But still, Randerson hadn’t really used him ill at the river, and besides, he had apologized, and it seemed to her that that should end the incident. Also, she still felt rather resentful toward Masten for his attitude toward Tom Chavis after she had complained. And also, lurking deep in her unsophisticatedmind was a most feminine impulse to sting Masten to jealousy. She looked up to meet Vickers’ gaze, fixed curiously upon her.
“Could you recommend this man—Randerson?” she asked.
“Why, ma’am, he’s got the best reputation of any man in these parts!”
“But is he efficient?”
“Meanin’ does he know his business? Well, I reckon. He’s got the best head for range work of any man in the country! He’s square, ma’am. An’ there ain’t no man monkeyin’ with him. I’ve knowed him for five years, an’ I ain’t ever knowed him to do a crooked trick, exceptin’”—and here he scratched his head and grinned reminiscently—“when he gets the devil in him which he does occasionally, ma’am—an’ goes to jokin’, ma’am. But they’re mostly harmless jokes, ma’am; he’s never hurt nobody, bad. But he got a level head—a heap leveler than a lot of folks that—”
“I think Tom Chavis would make a good range boss, Ruth,” said Masten. He did not look at her, and his words were expressionless.
“Mister man,” said Vickers evenly, “what do you know about Tom Chavis?”
Masten looked quickly at Vickers, and as quickly looked away, his face slowly reddening.
“He’s foreman now, isn’t he?” he said. “It seems that Harkness trusted him that much.”
“There’s a first time for every man to go wrong, Mister,” said Vickers.
Masten’s voice was almost a sneer.
“Why don’t you tell Chavis that?”
“I’ve told him, Mister—to his face.” Vickers’ own face was growing dark with wrath.
“You were range boss after Harkness’ death,” persisted Masten. “Why didn’t you discharge Chavis?”
“I’m askin’ the new boss for permission to do it now,” declared Vickers. “It’ll be a good wind-up for my stay here.”
“We shall keep Chavis for the present,” said Ruth. “However,” she added firmly, “he shall not be range boss. I do not like him.”
Vickers grinned silent applause. And again Uncle Jepson had trouble with his pipe. Aunt Martha worked her knitting needles a little faster. Masten’s face paled, and the hand that held the cigar quickly clenched, so that smoking embers fell to the porch floor. Whatever his feelings, however, he retained his self-control.
“Of course, it is your affair, Ruth,” he said. “I beg your pardon for offering the suggestion.”
But he left them shortly afterward, lighting a fresh cigar and walking toward the bunkhouse, which was deserted, for Chavis and Pickett had gone to a distant part of the range.
Thus Masten did not see Vickers, when a little later he came out on the porch with his war-bag. He said good-bye to Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson, and then he took Ruth’s hand and held it long.
“You’ll never go a heap wrong when you use your own judgment, girl,” he said. “I’m ridin’ over to the Diamond H to tell Randerson about his new job. Don’t make no mistake, girl. Rex Randerson is square. An’ if any trouble comes sneakin’ around you, take it to Rex; he’ll stick on the right side till hell freezes over.”
“I am Ruth Harkness, the new owner of the Flying W”
CHAPTER VIA MAN AND HIS JOB
Just what Ruth’s sensations were the next morning she could not have told. She could correctly analyze one emotion: it was eager anticipation. Also, she could account for it—she wanted to see Randerson. But her reason for wanting to see him was a mystery that she could not fathom, though between the time of arising and the moment when she got downstairs she devoted much thought to it. She knew she did not like Randerson well enough to wish to see him merely on that account—that was ridiculous, in spite of the vivid recollection of him that still lingered with her, for she had met him only once, and she assured herself that she was too practical-minded to fall in love with anyone at first sight. Yet by afternoon Ruth had tired of waiting; she had no special reason for certainty that Randerson would arrive that day, and so she went riding. She went alone, for Masten seemed to have hidden himself—at least, she could not find him.She rode to the break in the wall of the canyon that he had told her about, found it, sent her pony through it and over a shallow crossing, emerging at length in a tangle of undergrowth in a wood through which wound a narrow bridle path. She followed this for some distance, and after a while came to a clearing. A little adobe house stood near the center of the clearing. Ruth halted her pony, and was debating whether to call out or to ride boldly up, when a dog came out of the door of the cabin, growling, its hair bristling belligerently. The dog was big, black, and undoubtedly savage, for the pony instantly wheeled, and when the dog came closer, lashed out with both hind hoofs at it.
“Nig, you ol’ duffer, git in hyeh where you b’long! Can’t you see that that there’s alady!” came a voice, unmistakably feminine. And the dog, still growling, but submissive, drew off.
Ruth urged the pony on and rode the remaining distance to the door. A girl, attired in a ragged underskirt and equally ragged waist of some checkered material, and a faded house-apron that was many sizes too small for her, stood in the open doorway, watching. She was bare-footed, her hair was in tumbling disorder, though Ruth couldtell that it had been combed recently. But the legs, bare almost to the knees, were clean, though brown from tan, and her face and arms glowed pink and spotless, in spite of the rags. In her eyes, as she watched Ruth, was a strange mixture of admiration and defiance.
“Dad ain’t hyeh this mornin’,” she volunteered as Ruth climbed off her pony.
“I came to see you,” said Ruth, smiling. She threw the reins over the pony’s head and advanced, holding out a hand. “I am Ruth Harkness,” she added, “the new owner of the Flying W. I have been here almost a month, and I just heard that I had a neighbor. Wont you shake hands with me?”
“I reckon,” said the girl. Reluctantly, it seemed, she allowed Ruth to take her hand. But she drew it away immediately. “I’ve heard of you,” she said; “you’re a niece of that ol’ devil, Bill Harkness.” She frowned. “He was always sayin’ dad was hookin’ his doggoned cattle. Dad didn’t steal ’em—ol’ Bill Harkness was a liar!” Her eyes glowed fiercely. “I reckon you’ll be sayin’ the same thing about dad.”
“No indeed!” declared Ruth. “Your dad and I are going to be friends. I want to be friendswith you, too. I am not going to charge your dad with stealing my cattle. We are going to be neighbors, and visit each other. I want to know your dad, and I want you to come over to the Flying W and get acquainted with my aunt and uncle. Aren’t you going to invite me inside? I would if you came to visit me, you know.” She smiled winningly.
The girl flushed, and cast a glance at the interior of the cabin, which, Ruth had already noted through the open door, was scantily furnished but clean. Then the girl led the way in, motioned Ruth to a chair near a rough-topped table, and stood over beside a cast-iron stove, her hands hanging at her sides, the fingers crumpling the cloth of the ragged apron. Her belligerence had departed; she seemed now to be beginning to realize that this visit was really meant to honor her, and she grew conscious of her rags, of the visible signs of poverty, of the visitor’s raiment, gorgeous in comparison with her own—though Ruth’s was merely a simple riding habit of brown corduroy.
Ruth had set out for this visit with a definite intention: she wanted to discover just how the girl and her father lived, and if conditions wereas she suspected she was determined to help them. Conditions were worse than she had expected, but her face gave no indication. Perhaps Ruth’s wisdom was not remarkable where men were concerned, but she had a wealth of delicacy, understanding and sympathy where her own sex was in question. She stayed at the cabin for more than an hour and at the end of that time she emerged, smiling happily, her arm around the girl, with the girl’s pledge to visit her soon and an earnest invitation to come again. Best of all, she had cleverly played upon the feminine instinct for fine raiment, slyly mentioned a trunk that she had brought with her from the East, packed to the top with substantial finery which was not in the least needed by her—an incumbrance, rather—and which, she hinted, might become the property of another, if suitable in size.
The girl followed her to the edge of the clearing, walking beside the pony. There they took leave of each other, a glow in the eyes of both that gave promise of future sincere friendship.
“Good-bye, Hagar,” said the Flying W girl.
“Good-bye, lady,” said the girl. “Ruth,” she changed, as the Flying W girl held up an admonishing finger. And then, with a last smile, Ruthrode down the bridle path homeward, pleasure and pity mingling in her eyes.
Randerson reached the Flying W ranchhouse late in the afternoon. He rode first to the bunkhouse, and seeing nobody there he made a round of the buildings. Still seeing no one, he urged Patches toward the house, halted him at the edge of the front porch and sat in the saddle, looking at the front door. He was about to call, when the door opened and Uncle Jepson came out. There was a broad grin on Uncle Jepson’s face.
“I cal’late you’ve got here,” he said.
“Looks mighty like it,” returned the horseman. “You reckon my new boss is anywheres around?”
“She’s gone off ridin’,” Uncle Jepson told him. “It’s likely she’ll be back shortly.”
“I reckon I’d better wait,” said Randerson. He wheeled Patches.
“There’s plenty of sittin’ room on the porch here,” invited Uncle Jepson, indicating the chairs.
“Thank you—reckon the bunkhouse will be my quarters.”
He spoke to the pony. Uncle Jepson spoke at the same instant, and Patches halted:
“I cal’late you’d better wait here.”
“If you insist,” said Randerson. He swung off and walked to the edge of the porch, grinning mildly at Uncle Jepson. The handclasp between them was warm, for Uncle Jepson had been strongly attracted to this son of the plains; and the twinkle in Randerson’s eyes as his met Uncle Jepson’s was not to be mistaken.
“So Vickers has gone,” said Randerson as he dropped into a chair. “He’s a mighty fine man.”
“Willard wanted Chavis to have his job,” whispered Uncle Jepson.
“You don’t say!” Randerson’s eyes gleamed. “An’ Miss Ruth didn’t want him, I reckon.” He caught Uncle Jepson’s nod. “She’s allowin’ that she’s goin’ to be boss. But of course she would,” he added. He stood up, for Aunt Martha had opened the door and was standing in it, looking at him. He removed his hat and bowed to her, his eyes gleaming with something near affection, for Aunt Martha had found a place in his heart. He stepped forward, took her hand, and escorted her to the largest and most comfortable of the rockers on the porch, and when she sat down she looked up at him and smiled.
“I reckon you like it here?” he said gently to Aunt Martha.
“I like it very much. But there are differences—after Poughkeepsie. One doesn’t notice them so much at first.”
“I expect you find it sort of rough here,” he said, looking at her. “They tell me that in the East folks live pretty close together—that there’s conveniences. There ain’t a heap of conveniences here.” He pronounced the word slowly and laboriously. It was plain that he was trying to put on his best manners.
“No—no conveniences,” said Aunt Martha. “But it’s a wonderful country, my boy—wonderful!”
A pulse of something shot through him at the word, “boy.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said gravely.
Aunt Martha folded her hands in her lap and looked long at him over the rims of her glasses. There was interest in her eyes, and kindliness. For she saw something in this figure of a new type that sat before her—something that the two big guns, at his hips did not hint at—nor his leather chaps, the cartridge belt, the broad hat, the spurs, the high-heeled boots, the colored scarf at his throat. These things were the badges of his calling, and were, of course, indispensable, but she saw themnot. But the virile manhood of him; the indomitability; the quiet fearlessness, indicated by his steady, serene eyes; the rugged, sterling honesty that radiated from him, she saw—and admired. But above all she saw the boy in him—the generous impulses that lay behind his mask of grimness, the love of fun that she had seen him exhibit at Calamity.
“You were born here?” she asked.
“In Colfax, ma’am.”
“Is that a city?”
“Bless yu’, ma’am, no. It’s a county.”
“And you were born on a ranch, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She was asking questions that a man would not have dared to ask him, and he was answering them as a boy might have answered. It did not seem an impertinence to him or to her, so great was her interest in him, so deep was his admiration of her.
“And your parents?”
“Both dead, ma’am.” A shadow crossed his face, a look of wistfulness, and she abruptly ceased questioning. And when, a little later, they saw Ruth coming across the plains toward them, Aunt Martha got up. He held the screen dooropen for her, and she paused on the threshold and patted his bare head.
“If I had had a son, I could have wished he would be like you,” she said.
He blushed crimson. “Why, ma’am—” he began. But Aunt Martha had gone in, and he turned to face Ruth, who was dismounting at the edge of the porch.
“Oh!” she said, as though his appearance had surprised her, though she had seen him from afar, “you are here already!”
“I expect it’s me, ma’am,” he said gravely. “You see, Wes Vickers stopped at the Diamond H last evenin’, an’ I come right over.”
It was quite evident that he would not attempt to be familiar. No longer was he the free lance rider of the plains who had been at liberty to exchange words with her as suited his whim; here was the man who had been given a job, and there stood his employer; he would not be likely to step over that line, and his manner showed it.
“Well,” she said, “I am glad you decided to come right away; we miss Vickers already, and I have no doubt, according to his recommendation, that you will be able to fill his place acceptably.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I reckon I’m to take upmy quarters in the bunkhouse?” He paused. “Or mebbe the foreman’s shanty?”
“Why,” she said, looking at him and noting his grave earnestness, so strikingly in contrast to his wild frolicksomeness at Calamity that day. “Why, I don’t know about that. Vickers stayed at the ranchhouse, and I suppose you will stay here too.”
“All right, ma’am; I’ll be takin’ my war-bag in.” He was evidently feeling a slight embarrassment, and would have been glad to retreat. He got his war-bag from its place behind the saddle, on Patches, shouldered it, and crossed the porch. He was opening the door when Ruth’s voice stopped him.
“Oh,” she said, “your room. I forgot to tell you; it is the one in the northwest corner.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He went in.
“Come down when you have straightened around,” she called to him, “I want to talk with you about some things.”
“I’ll have to put Patches away, ma’am,” he said, “I’d sure have to come down, anyway.”
That talk was held with Uncle Jepson looking on and listening and smoking his pipe. And when it was over, Randerson took the saddle and bridleoff Patches, turned him loose in the corral and returned to the porch to talk and smoke with Uncle Jepson.
While they sat the darkness came on, the kerosene lamp inside was lighted, delicious odors floated out to them through the screen door. Presently a horseman rode to the corral fence and dismounted.
“One of the boys, I reckon,” said Randerson.
Uncle Jepson chuckled. “It’s Willard,” he said. He peered into Randerson’s face for some signs of emotion. There were none.
“I’d clean forgot him,” said Randerson.
Masten came in a few minutes later. He spoke a few words to Uncle Jepson, but ignored Randerson.
Supper was announced soon after Masten’s entrance, and Uncle Jepson led Randerson around to the rear porch, where he introduced him to a tin washbasin and a roller towel. Uncle Jepson also partook of this luxury, and then led the new range boss inside.
If Ruth had any secret dread over the inevitable meeting between Masten and the new range boss, it must have been dispelled by Randerson’s manner, for he was perfectly polite to Masten,and by no word or sign did he indicate that he remembered the incident of Calamity.
Ruth watched him covertly during the meal, and was delighted to find his conduct faultless. He had not Masten’s polish, of course, that was not to be expected. But she noticed this—it was quickly impressed upon her—he was not self-conscious, but entirely natural, possessing the easy grace of movement that comes of perfect muscular and mental control. He seemed to relegate self to the background; he was considerate, quiet, serene. And last—the knowledge pleased her more than anything else—he continued to keep between himself and the others the bars of deference; he made them see plainly that there would be no overstepping his position. It was his job to be here, and he had no illusions.